Hunting Ground
by Macha
Summary: don't judge me so harsh, little girl. Post-ep of sorts for "Truth Takes Time."


SPOILERS: Through "Truth Takes Time."  
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to JJ Abrams and Bad Robot.  
SUMMARY: don't judge me so harsh, little girl. Post-ep of sorts for "Truth Takes Time."  
THANKS: To Emily and Lulu, for making me UN-obsessed with this   
show and for the fabulous betawork. Especially Em, who suggested   
Playboy Spymommy in the first place. And, even though this isn't their fandom, to Jo & Ryo.  
Hunting Ground  
Macha  
The small plane bounced, just a little, in the turbulent air, and   
Irina pushed herself back upright, dismissing any hope of sleeping   
or of autocircadian meditation. She was exhausted, but unable to   
curb her errant thoughts. She'd played the dutiful friend for hours,   
dragging a shocked Sloane onto the helicopter, across the airstrip,   
up the steps into the plane. She'd never seen him like this, and   
as the plane lifted into the sky, Sark had convinced Sloane to accept a sedative.   
  
A sedative didn't sound bad, Irina thought. A part of her would   
like a shot or a nip to help her sleep on the interminable flight   
to Brisbane. Her arm ached, and she had some small contact burns   
on her chest -- in his haste, Sark must have missed the edges of   
the paddles when he smeared on the conducting gel.   
  
But as much as she'd like to blame her physical aches for her insomnia,   
she was too accustomed to this life; she'd learned to take sleep   
where she could find it, no matter her injuries. And it wasn't   
the potential mix of painkillers and alcohol that troubled her,   
either. It was her finely honed sense of self-preservation. Her   
situation, her relationship with Sloane was too precarious, too   
full of mistrust -- and that was *before* Emily's death. Now...   
She couldn't add an alcoholic daze to the mix. She couldn't lose control of the situation.  
  
Not when Sark was keeping watch over a despondent Sloane in the   
other cabin. Not when she was still distrusted, still doubted by   
the men for whom she'd betrayed Jack a second time.  
  
Sex with Jack had been a key element of her plan (and, as it turned   
out, she thought bitterly, *his* plan). Irina wasn't a schoolgirl   
who'd always longed for one more night with her true love. Sure,   
she'd loved him well enough back then, given their situation. She'd   
loved him beyond all measure when he'd given her a daughter, and   
she'd reveled in the normality between them, even if it was a lie.   
After a few years, the lines she'd tried to maintain between Irina   
and Laura started to blur, and some small part of her preferred   
Laura's simpler life. The pretense was enough, most days, to allow   
her to believe that maybe she wouldn't have to leave Jack -- or leave Sydney.   
  
But as enticing as such fantasies were, she'd never forgotten her   
purpose. She'd loved Jack and she'd loved Sydney -- she loved Sydney   
still -- with a ferocity that surprised her. It had broken something   
inside of her to abandon her six-year-old daughter. But Irina had   
always been strong, had always understood that some things were   
more important than the relatively inconsequential desires of one   
person. She'd done what was necessary, and didn't allow herself   
personal regrets, even if that piece of her remained broken. She   
simply put the shards into a box, sealed it up tight, and didn't let herself dwell on it.  
  
The plane banked to the left, tipping Irina toward the earth, toward   
the dark waters below, but try as she might, she couldn't see land.   
  
"Ms. Derevko."  
  
She blinked once, twice, and turned to Sark, all traces of melancholy   
tucked ruthlessly away for examination at a later date. She didn't   
have time for such thoughts, and she didn't have time to regret   
her actions. They were necessary and they were right, and if they   
hurt Jack and Sydney, well... That was a high price, but the alternative was unthinkable.  
  
"Are we almost there?" Irina asked.  
  
"We're stopping to refuel in Hong Kong," Sark answered, his inquisitive   
gaze searching her features for some sign of deceit. But he'd learned   
the tricks of the trade at her knee, and she stared back impassively.  
  
"I could use some clothes," she answered. "I'll need something for Canberra."  
  
"Mr. Sloane has some of -- He has some clothing." Sark indicated   
the door to the rear cabin of the plane. "You're welcome to take what you'd like."  
  
"Thank you." Irina turned back to the window, watching Sark's reflection as he rose quietly.   
  
"He'd like to speak with you."  
  
Irina addressed Sark's reflection. "The sedative?"  
  
"He slept for a little while. An hour, perhaps."  
  
Irina nodded, holding her injured arm to her body as she rose.   
Sark preceded her down the aisle, holding the door open for her.   
She paused in the doorway and gave Sark an eloquent look. He nodded.   
"If you need anything," he said, and took a seat in the main cabin.  
  
Pulling the door softly closed, Irina let her gaze travel the small   
cabin. It was immaculate, for the most part, except for the chaos   
of the bed. A pile of bedsheets in the corner suggested that Sloane   
had torn them from the bed, and he lay instead on the bare mattress,   
an army green blanket pulled over him. His eyes were closed, but   
Irina suspected he was awake. He was, as ever, trying to figure   
out her motives, just as she puzzled at his.  
  
She'd known, even as Sydney and the others moved on SD-6, that Sloane   
had played a role in getting the information to the CIA. What she   
hadn't yet figured out was how that move squared with his recent   
determination to leave the business. She would figure it out sooner   
or later, though. She had no doubts about her ability to extract the information she wanted.  
  
Irina was blessed with a turn of mind that allowed her to analyze   
any opponent, including her former husband and her daughter, to   
pinpoint where their weaknesses lie.   
  
Jack, for example, hated himself for still caring about Irina, still   
loving her. Despite his brusque demeanor, she hadn't lost her ability   
to read him. She recognized the clench of his jaw, the tone of   
his voice that meant he was angry with himself. After a careful   
study of him, she'd used her ample time to herself to analyze why   
his anger was directed as much at himself as at her. She'd figured   
it out: As much as the logical, rational, analytical part of him   
distrusted her motives, the disarmingly credulous part of Jack still   
wanted to believe she'd turned herself into the CIA as some sort   
of apology. He still believed she could be redeemed, and probably   
thought of himself as her redeemer. That notion would've made a   
romantic sort of sense to him. Such innocence in the face of the   
harshness of the world he lived in had been one of his most endearing   
qualities, and Irina was affected more than she should be by evidence   
that even after her betrayal, Jack remained fundame  
ntally the same.   
  
Sloane was a more difficult study. His love for Emily had been,   
it seemed, the driving force behind his decision to sell his intelligence   
assets. Irina thought she could make sense of most his recent actions   
in that context, but that mattered very little. Emily's death --   
it would be a point of no return. Sloane's priority was gone.   
What he would do now was anyone's guess.   
  
And Irina's original intention -- a quick resolution to the Sloane   
problem -- was no longer possible.  
  
Irina settled into the seat closest to the bed, grimacing slightly   
as she jarred her arm. When she looked at Sloane again, his eyes   
were open and he was very nearly smiling as he caught her display of vulnerability.   
  
"Irina," he greeted, pushing himself upright, leaning against the   
pillows piled at the headboard like an ancient pasha. He folded   
the blanket fastidiously, smoothing the rumpled fabric and tucking it around his legs.   
  
"Arvin," Irina answered, infusing her tone with sorrow and compassion. "Is there anything you need?"  
  
"I need to kill the bastard who shot--" He stopped, turning his   
face away, unable to say his wife's name. He worked his jaw silently   
for a moment, as Irina watched him with narrowed eyes. His abilities   
were legendary, but this grief was real and raw.  
  
Irina considered her words carefully. "Do we know which operative--"  
  
Sloane gave her a penetrating look. "It wasn't Sydney."  
  
"I know." Irina gestured at her sling. "Sydney was in the tunnel with me."  
  
Sloane raised one eyebrow. "Sydney shot you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"There's a certain..." He shrugged. "Symmetry."  
  
Irina didn't answer, schooling her features into a smooth mask.  
  
Sloane watched her impassively for a long moment, then his expression   
faltered. "Sark saw Dixon with a rifle," he said, his voice softer,   
more tentative. "Dixon was Sydney's partner at SD-6."  
  
"I'll take care of it," Irina vowed, already calculating whether   
she could get away with wounding Dixon, whether that would put her   
under further suspicion from Sloane.  
  
"No," Sloane said. "I'll do it myself."  
  
"Arvin--"  
  
"I need you to retrieve the fragment," Sloane ordered. "I have   
no doubt that the CIA will trace the plane to Australia, and they'll   
send Sydney. If Sydney comes, so will Dixon. You take care of   
the Rambaldi fragment, and I'll settle the score with Dixon."  
  
As much as Irina needed Sloane to believe she was willing to take   
his orders, submitting gracefully to the commands of others was   
not something she did well. Or often. She'd truly blossomed as   
an agent when she'd been running her own organization.   
  
But playing a role was second nature to Irina, a skill she'd learned   
so long ago and so well she no longer gave it much thought. Her   
ability to assume different names, different mannerisms, different   
histories was so much a part of her that she had trouble remembering,   
during her insomnia-plagued nights, herself. Irina Derevko.   
  
The details of her favorite personas, the ones she'd used repeatedly   
in her career, those were simple to recall. Her mission, her orders   
were drilled into her. She could recite brief biographical sketches   
of the top operators in the intelligence world. Boris Sokolov savored   
white zinfandel; Sylvain Mercier knocked back martinis without a   
grimace; Arun Rajasakeran cautiously sipped mixed drinks that tasted like candy.   
  
Remembering her own likes and dislikes, her private fantasies and   
desires -- that took some effort. Irina Derevko preferred vodka straight.   
  
But she couldn't be that Irina right now. She couldn't be the Irina   
that wanted nothing more than to get Sydney out of the CIA. Instead,   
she had to be the Irina that Sloane knew, the Irina that Jack and   
Sydney now believed she was. The Irina that nodded and accepted   
Sloane's order. "Of course," Irina murmured. "You should rest."  
  
Sloane held her gaze for a long, tense moment, then nodded. "Please send Sark in."  
  
"Of course," Irina repeated, steeling herself to rise. This time,   
she gave no outward indication when pain radiated from her shoulder in waves.   
  
Irina slipped out into the main cabin. Sark rose at her entrance,   
and she lowered her voice. "I think he needs another sedative."  
  
Sark nodded, allowing by. "I'll take care of it."  
  
Without bothering to reply, Irina dropped back into her seat, letting   
out a long, slow breath as she heard the door to Sloane's cabin click shut behind Sark.   
  
She stared out into the cold darkness, the endless oceans below,   
and thought about how she'd gotten here. She thought about the   
choices she'd made, and she hoped that her deceit this time hadn't   
ruined Jack. He'd always been a private person, but in the years   
since Irina had disappeared the first time, Jack had hardened, closed   
himself off further from the world and, Irina had noticed, their   
daughter. Irina could no longer be there, and she prayed that Jack   
wouldn't turn his emotions off altogether as a result of her escape.   
Sydney, after all, needed one parent she could rely on.   
  
Considering Sloane's decision to assume a leadership position again,   
one parent was going to have to be enough.  
  
***  
  
When Sydney and Vaughn arrived at CIA headquarters together, Jack   
held his tongue. Despite his relative inexperience, Vaughn had   
proven himself a decent handler, and he seemed to care very much   
about Sydney. Still, Jack couldn't get past his certainty that   
any relationship between Sydney and her handler would end badly.   
Odds were, if they continued field work together, their feelings   
for each other would get one or the other of them killed.  
  
And Jack found that unacceptable. He'd been unable to save Sydney's   
fiancé, and he didn't cherish the thought of attending another funeral   
from afar, watching the exquisite pain on his daughter's face.   
And he'd be damned if he'd even consider the possibility that it   
would be Sydney who was killed.   
  
Disbelieving that particular possibility was the only way Jack was   
able to send his only daughter into harm's way.   
  
"Dad," Sydney greeted, eyes wide. "What's going on?"  
  
"Genvieve Thibideaux, one of our agents in Australia, captured part   
of a conversation between Janofsky and Sark," Jack explained. "Something about a fragment."  
  
Vaughn frowned. "A fragment? A fragment of what?"  
  
"We don't know," Jack answered. "But we're going to find out.   
Given the context," he continued, calling the transcript in question   
up onto the monitors, "we believe it's related to Rambaldi. We   
checked the tail numbers of all planes that left airports in and   
around Tuscany against planes that landed in any Australian airport."  
  
Sydney's mouth tightened. "Sloane," she said. "And my mother."  
  
Jack wondered idly when he'd be the bearer of anything but bad news   
where Irina was concerned. "We think so, yes. A small, private   
jet registered to Versent -- a Slovakian company -- left a small,   
commuter airport outside of Tuscany, stopped in Hong Kong to refuel,   
and landed in Canberra, Australia last night."   
  
"How do we know that Sloane and Derevko didn't get off in Hong Kong?" Dixon asked.  
  
With a few keystrokes, Jack brought up surveillance video from the   
Canberra International Airport. He froze the frame that showed   
Sloane, Sark, and Irina in grainy black and white. "Sydney, Dixon -- you're going to Canberra."  
  
Vaughn spoke immediately. "I'll run the support op."  
  
"I'm running support from here," Jack answered, pinning Vaughn with   
an icy look, daring the younger agent to challenge him.  
  
He didn't look happy, but Vaughn nodded grimly. "Fine. I'll provide backup in Canberra."  
  
Jack considered arguing, but there wasn't time to go ten rounds   
with Sydney. He nodded curtly. "You'll leave in 30 minutes."  
  
An hour and half later, Sydney, Dixon, and Vaughn were on their   
way to Australia, armed with Marshall's latest gadgetry. In Los   
Angeles, Jack studied a profile of Janofsky, searching for something   
that would lead them unerringly to Sloane and Irina. Thibideaux   
called in on the hour, reporting that surveillance on Janofsky thus   
far hadn't turned up Sloane or Irina.  
  
Despite his tension, Jack managed a power nap on his couch. He'd   
never picked up Irina's circadian meditation trick, but three hours   
of sleep left him sharp and refreshed to run the op. He had everyone   
in place in Australia by the time Sydney's plane landed.  
  
Sydney, Dixon, and Vaughn executed the plan flawlessly, joining   
Thibideaux's surveillance of Janofsky. When he rounded up twenty   
of his security agents and headed out, Vaughn and Thibideaux followed   
in a surveillance van, and Dixon and Sydney drove a small rental car.   
  
When it became clear Janofsky was headed for the Canberra Railway   
Station, Jack accessed a satellite feed to watch the perimeters   
and instructed Marshall to find a way to feed the station's surveillance   
cameras to L.A. Sydney and Dixon took up positions in the trainyard,   
waiting at Jack's insistence until Vaughn and Thibideaux caught   
references to Sloane or Irina on the parabolic mic.   
  
"Dad." Sydney's voice, soft and urgent.  
  
"Sydney, what's wrong?" Jack leaned closer to the screen. A train   
was chugging to a stop at the platform, nearly drowning out Sydney's words.  
  
"I need to move closer. I'm not going to be able to see--"  
  
"Sydney?" Vaughn, sounding worried.  
  
"Someone just walked past Janofsky," Sydney answered. "Close enough to pass something."  
  
"Sydney, what are you doing?" Dixon this time. "I didn't see anything unusual."  
  
Jack squinted at the screen, hoping the small figure moving into   
the frame wasn't Sydney. "Sydney. Hold your position."  
  
"I'm getting on the train," Sydney whispered. "I saw--"  
  
"No," Dixon interrupted. "There's no sign of Sloane--"  
  
Crosstalk. Vaughn's voice, anxious. "We don't know where the train is going."   
  
Jack punched three digits into the phone. "Marshall, get in here."  
  
"Not Sloane," Sydney whispered as the small figure on the screen   
reached the doors of the train. "My mother."  
  
"Sydney!" Jack shouted, but there was no answer. He watched in   
consternation as the train pulled away from the platform, a fast-moving   
figure he assumed was Dixon too late to jump aboard.   
  
Marshall appeared in the doorway. "I've almost got--"  
  
"A train just left the Canberra Railway Station," Jack answered   
grimly. "Find out where it's going."  
  
"Okay. What's on it?"  
  
"Sydney," Jack answered. "And Irina Derevko."  
  
***  
  
Such hubris, Irina thought with disdain as moved dropped to one   
knee in the boxcar. The Rambaldi fragment was easy enough to find,   
hidden, as it was in a trunk marked with a large "J" for Janofsky.   
She made quick work of the padlock, opened the trunk, and spun   
the combination on the inner lock. The second lock gave with a   
satisfying click, and Irina opened the padded box. The fragment   
was singularly unimpressive, an oddly shaped bit of metal with hinges   
on one end. Janofsky claimed to have another piece elsewhere that   
completed the device, but that wasn't Irina's problem.   
  
She eased the fragment from its casing, coaxing it from its home   
and sliding it into a cushioned pouch. The pouch fit securely inside   
her shirt, tucked into her waistband.  
  
The boxcar was noisy, its wooden frame creaking as the train lurched   
around a corner. Still, even over the boxcar's protestations, Irina   
heard a footstep, heard the soft click of a safety.  
  
If it were anyone else, Irina would have dropped behind a nearby   
crate and come up shooting, but she knew, somehow, that it was Sydney.  
  
"Drop it."  
  
It was always Sydney.  
  
"Drop what?" she asked evenly, her empty hands held out to the side,   
despite the pull at her injured muscle. She rotated slowly in place,   
an amused expression in place.   
  
Perfect, Irina thought, staring into her daughter's angry eyes.   
  
"The Rambaldi fragment," Sydney answered, her tone sharp. She was   
at the other end of the boxcar, in classic shooter's stance as she   
held her gun steady on her mother.   
  
Irina acknowledged the hit with a dip of her chin. "How did you know?"  
  
"Why would I tell you?"   
  
Irina shrugged. "Fair enough. Sydney, you need to get Dixon out of Australia."  
  
Sydney frowned, shaking her head slightly. Irina wondered, sometimes,   
how someone with as readable a face as Sydney had survived undercover.   
Perhaps Sydney was better when she wasn't angry. Or when she wasn't going after her own mother.  
  
"Why?" Sydney demanded.  
  
"Dixon killed Emily," Irina answered.   
  
"I know that," Sydney shot back.  
  
"Sloane's not on this train, Sydney."  
  
Sydney connected the dots quickly, her expression stormy. "Are   
you saying that Sloane's planning to kill Dixon?"  
  
Softening her tone, Irina asked, "Sydney, didn't you get my message?"   
Irina took advantage of Sydney's momentary distraction to make   
her move, using the train's momentum to throw herself behind the crate beside her.   
  
"Mom!" Sydney yelled.  
  
"Get out of here, Sydney," Irina shouted back, unsnapping her holster.   
She gauged the distance to the door, but past experience taught   
her not to underestimate Sydney. Sydney would shoot her if given   
the opportunity. Before Irina could get away, she'd have to disarm Sydney.  
  
"Mom," Sydney ordered. "Throw down your weapon."  
  
Irina moved silently, edging around the side of the crate. There   
wasn't much room between the rough wood of the crate and the metal   
wall of the boxcar, but she wedged herself in, nearly sideways.   
The metal was painfully hot, conducting heat from the brutal noonday   
sun. Irina grit her teeth and kept moving, peering around the edge of the crate.   
  
Sydney was advancing slowly on Irina's last position, moving closer   
and closer to where Irina needed her to be in the makeshift aisle.   
  
Irina hurled herself out into the narrow opening, kicking Sydney's   
arm as it swung towards her, knocking the gun from Sydney's grip.   
There wasn't room to fight, not here, and Irina used the enclosed   
quarters to her advantage, rushing Sydney, getting close enough   
to render Sydney's impressive kicks useless.   
  
Sydney's strong hands closed on Irina's arms, one dangerously close   
to Irina's bullet wound. The two women locked eyes, and Sydney's   
expression hardened as realization hit. She started to slide her   
left hand up to take advantage of Irina's vulnerability. Irina   
brought her arms up, grabbing hold of Sydney's shoulders, keeping   
her in place as she whipped her head forward in a brutal head butt.  
  
Sydney's grip loosened and she staggered slightly. Irina pressed   
her advantage, shoving her daughter off balance and pushing past,   
jerking the boxcar door open. Irina took a moment to smooth her   
hair, then opened the door to the adjacent passenger car, walking   
quickly down the aisle with an air of calm determination.   
  
"Excuse me," she asked the attendant at the food counter. "Are we on schedule?"  
  
The attendant smiled blankly. "As far as I know, yes."  
  
"Thank you." Irina checked her watch and decided she'd have to   
ditch the train. Two hours was too long to avoid Sydney and--  
  
"Mom, there you are!" Sydney's cheerful voice carried the length   
of the passenger car, and when Irina turned, her daughter was smiling   
broadly as she walked up the aisle, giving a disarming grin to the   
passengers who looked up at her words. "You shouldn't wander off   
like that, Mom. I was worried."  
  
Irina smiled back, and a part of her meant it. "I was just checking   
if the train was on schedule," she answered, her voice almost as   
loud as Sydney's, the better to carry on the charade to their fellow passengers.  
  
Sydney reached her side. "We'd better get back to our seats," she   
said. "Unless you wanted something to eat."   
  
"No, I'm fine," Irina countered, tilting her heard towards the door. "We should go."  
  
"After you," Sydney insisted with a warm smile.   
  
Irina dipped her chin briefly, and then turned, preceding her daughter.   
Her gun was still in its unfastened holster, quickly retrievable,   
but that was Irina's last resort.   
  
She slid the door open slowly, glancing back at her daughter as   
she stepped out onto the small platform between cars. Sydney returned   
her gaze impassively, and Irina smiled just a little as she continued   
into the next car. Sydney didn't stop her, so Irina kept moving,   
down the next car and the next, until they reached a car populated   
only by an elderly couple, asleep with their hands clasped.  
  
Irina moved past them, moved towards the front of the car, moved   
towards the doors. She faked a stumble as she neared the small   
open space, touching her hand to the top of an empty seat to steady   
herself. She reached forward, her right hand closing around the   
vertical pole, and she threw her weight to the right, swinging her body around.   
  
Sydney moved into action, but she didn't anticipate Irina's kick,   
and blocked with her gun arm. The gun clattered across the floor   
out of sight, and Irina grinned.   
  
"Don't make me hurt you," Sydney warned.  
  
"I was going to say the same to you," Irina answered, taking one   
step back into the small, open space in between the train's side   
doors. It was designed for passengers to enter and exit the train,   
not for hand-to-hand fighting, but it would have to suffice.   
  
Sydney gave a careless shrug and jumped up, grabbing the vertical   
poles on either side of her to swing her lower body out, kicking   
viciously. Irina held the pole beside her and bent backwards, her   
hair brushing the floor as she avoided the kicks.   
  
She used the pole for balance and lashed out, kicking at her daughter,   
but Sydney jumped onto the seat beside her, and Irina smashed the   
fake wooden divider between the seating area and the doors. Sydney   
leaped off of the seats, both hands on the pole, and swung out and   
around, kicking at Irina with both feet. Irina moved quickly, and   
Sydney scored only a glancing blow, then bounced feet-first off   
the train doors. The force was too much for the doors, which gave   
slightly, opening a few inches.  
  
Sydney paused, shouting over the rushing wind. "Just give me the fragment. Come back with me."  
  
"I can't." Irina shook her head slightly, her body loose and ready for another onslaught.   
  
"Why?" Sydney demanded, one hand still clasped on the pole.   
  
"I told you." Irina glanced at the door, estimating the speed of   
the train, eyeing the harsh terrain.  
  
"Truth takes time," Sydney spat. "When have you ever been truthful?"  
  
The edges of Irina's mouth turned up the tiniest bit. "You're going to have to trust me, Sydney."  
  
Harsh laughter was Sydney's only response.   
  
"I know what I'm doing." Irina shrugged her good shoulder and made   
her move, feigning a punch, following with a sharp kick. Sydney   
moved quickly out of the way, and Irina connected with the door   
as she'd planned. A few more inches. The wind whistled into the   
car, blowing Sydney's hair around.   
  
Sydney ignored it, circling the small empty space and lunging for   
her mother. Her first punch landed solidly on Irina's ribcage,   
leaving her winded, but Irina ducked, throwing herself into a tight   
roll. She pushed herself upright beside the open door and paused, locking gazes with Sydney.  
  
Sydney's eyes widened. "No." She took a step forward. "Don't--"  
  
Irina feinted once more, catching Sydney as she ducked and shoving   
her back against the metal pole. Sydney never quite lost consciousness,   
but she slid to the floor in a daze.  
  
Irina tenderly brushed Sydney's errant hair back and tucked it behind   
her ear. "Malenkaya," she said softly.   
  
Moving quickly, Irina forced the train doors open farther until   
there was enough room for her slim form. She took a deep breath,   
gathered her balance, and dove out of the train, landing in a roll   
that, given the velocity of her body, turned quickly into an out-of-control tumble down the slope.   
  
She lay there, stunned, for several moments as the train rattled   
past above her. Then she pushed herself, bruised and bleeding,   
to her unsteady feet and watched the train rumble away. Irina slid   
one hand over her form, checking for her gun, the Rambaldi fragment,   
and her transmitter. She flicked the microphone on. "It's me."  
  
Sloane answered almost immediately. "You have it?"  
  
"Yes. Change of plans. I had to exit the train a little early."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Sydney boarded the train," Irina answered shortly.  
  
A pause, and then: "Where are you?"  
  
"Walking west," Irina answered. "Did you accomplish your objective?"  
  
"No. The opportunity didn't present itself."  
  
Irina allowed herself a small smile. Sloane told her that Sark   
would triangulate her position and they'd be out to get her. Irina   
acknowledged, then switched the device off. She squinted into the   
distance, but the train was out of sight.   
  
"I know what I'm doing," Irina said again, softly. And she was almost positive that she did.  
  
***  
  
i never was the fantasy  
of what you want  
wanted me to be  
don't judge me so harsh, little girl  
The End  
  
Feedback appreciated at: thestickywicket@lycos.com 


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